Broken Hallelujahs
by Sazmuffin
Summary: It's all just broken hallelujahs. Ron's thought process. Postwar. Ron/Luna


Author: Sazmuffin

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Title: Broken Hallelujah

Ship: Ron/Luna

Rating: T (to be safe)

A/N: This is written as if it's inside Ron's head; that's why the sentences are so long :P

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Sometimes I wonder why I did it. I can tell myself all day that it was the locket, the locket that thought with a mind of its own with no regard to the mind two feet above it. The damned locket draped around my neck, convincing me of things I didn't believe. Sure, we didn't know what we were doing or where we were going or what we were looking for, but I was with my friends. I was with my best friend, the one the bore the wizarding world on his shoulders without complaint, the silent watchdog for a greedy, ungrateful, rumor-crazed population. I was with the woman I loved with a passion that burned like a thousand suns, stifled for years and years only to find out that the love was only there for lack of trying. I guess that in itself is a broken hallelujah. I wonder even more sometimes what brought me back to them. The walk of shame, unlike the walk you take down a driveway that isn't yours after a night of memories you don't care to remember, but more like the walk back to a pair of friends you didn't deserve. They tell me all the time; Ron, don't worry about it, it's all in the past. But it isn't, not really.

But then that makes me wonder; what do I believe in? Do I believe that there's someone or something that has planned out everything that I will do in my life, or do I believe that my life and my mum's life and the life of the goblin in Gringotts that keeps sending me howlers about my overdue rent are all just thrown into a vortex of chaos, with no real reason as to why we're here and how it happened? You see muggles praying to all sorts of deities, blindly following a trail either because they were brought up that way or the ones who don't because they must see to believe? I wonder what they would believe if they knew there really was magic. If there really was nothing they could do about a dark wizard who doesn't care that you have papers that even the Prime Minister can verify saying this is your house and this is your wife and these are your children. Because Voldemort wouldn't care, because for all its worth, it's his house and his wife and his children, because he'll do whatever he likes to them in front of you with you screaming bloody murder not knowing what to do because you've never seen the likes of him before, and that's just too damned bad. Again, it's just another broken hallelujah.

Sometimes I wonder why I never saw it before. I saw her almost every day for five years in all sorts of circumstances, and now I see her face every single day three years later. I wonder because nothing has changed. Her lips still have the same laugh lines they had when she wore her Gryffindor lion hat to quidditch games. Her eyes still reflect the very inside of her core, like the sun's rays did onto the Black Lake, revealing to us the magical mermaid cities only me and a few other handful of wizards got to see in fourth year. But now I think about how the Black Lake could reflect anything before the war, because where there once were grindylows and patches of seaweed hiding secrets we didn't know were diamonds that competed with those rays of sunlight for brilliance.

I am the way I am now because of her, going from one thought to the next without a care because everything is whizzing past me like metro trains and I can't get a tight enough grasp on any thoughts other than the ones of her hair or her hands or her eyelashes anymore. She is a broken hallelujah because she could grasp onto her thoughts and she'd say them without a care as to who heard them. Some people would laugh because she was funny, others would laugh because she was different, and some don't care to listen because they think she isn't worth their time.

She thinks is broken hallelujahs because she is one. Her thoughts are quick and spritely, popping into her head without a moment's notice and without a moment more. She is life, living all at once in all directions. Spherically, she calls it. She is light and dark, just like everything else in this life, from the eviction notice to the confessions to a priest that isn't listening to a kiss that just might define what she means to me and what I mean to her. My only fear is that one day she won't need me anymore. That one day the hallelujahs I sing to her as we fall into bed aren't broken between light and dark. Because that means I am constant, unchanging.

I am Luna's chameleon, forever changing for her because I cannot help myself. Because for all the broken hallelujahs that constitute the life of Ron Weasley, she is the only one that must remain broken. She is the line between unchartered chaos and gaping vacuums, more affectionately known to most as life.


End file.
